


Why Is It Always Me?

by AngeNoir



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, OT3, Torture, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It just isn't fair. It really, really isn't.</p><p>Unfortunately (fortunately?) Gaby and Illya agree. That doesn't stop it from happening, but they definitely agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Is It Always Me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonster/gifts).



“It’s just damned unfair, that’s what it is.”

“Yes, of course, Napoleon.”

Napoleon was sure he should be offended at Gaby’s tone – conciliatory, even patronizing. “I mean it, you know.”

Her small hand patted Napoleon’s head. “I’m sure you do.”

He was being carried, but he was too woozy and too tired to do anything but grumble into the hard chest he was pressed against. It smelled nice, though, and felt firm. He very much liked it.

Gaby’s tone turned slightly amused. “I like it too.”

There was a deep rumble – too faint for Napoleon to pick up. No, not too faint – too wrong. Wrong language.

Something.

“You’re speaking wrong,” he managed to say intelligently, even as gentle hands shifted him and Napoleon nearly threw up. “It’s too hard to understand.”

“I say, I’m glad you like. I like your chest too.”

The voice was familiar, and Napoleon blinked open his eyes – when had they closed? – to see Illya hovering over him, face intense. “You frown too much, Peril. Need to make you smile more.”

Those big, strong hands traced over Napoleon’s skull lightly, delicately. “You make me smile, Cowboy.”

Gaby was suddenly in Napoleon’s line of sight, holding their big, heavy-duty first aid kit. Now that he was looking at it, though, he realized he was feeling sharp pinpricks of pain in his fingers and toes, and he remembered his initial complaint. “It’s unfair, is what it is.”

“Believe me,” Gaby murmured even as Illya’s hands undid Napoleon’s shirt and bared his chest, “we don’t like it any more than you do.”

“I am trained for torture,” Illya grunted. “Maybe they see this and take you instead.”

“Still not fair,” Napoleon sighed.

Those skillful hands paused in their motions before continuing. “No,” Illya agreed. “Is not. But our targets are rarely fair.”

With a laugh, Napoleon closed his eyes. “You do have a point there, old boy. I’m going to faint now.”

Gentle lips brushed against his brow – Gaby. “Go ahead, Napoleon. You are safe now.”

***

When he woke up, he was aware of the many points of pain; he’d had his fingernails removed, and they’d started on his toenails, which didn’t even touch on the fact that he had busted ribs and bruises lining his chest. He groaned, and the body curled against him shifted at the noise.

He opened his eyes to see the lights dimmed, the curtains drawn tightly, and Gaby precariously balanced on the edge of the bed next to him. Near the doorway, Illya sat with a gun in his lap.

“Keep watch, Peril?” he croaked.

Illya turned his eyes over to Napoleon, and in them Napoleon saw the cold ruthlessness of anger and fury, the desperation for a loved one’s safety, and deep-seated relief. “You are more aware now.”

“I’m pretty sure they injected something in me. Why is it that I’m always the one tortured?” he complained.

“You are the one so sure to talk way out of all problems,” Illya said philosophically. “Maybe two correlated.”

Gaby sat up with a yawn and blinked open heavy eyes. “Oh, Illya, you were supposed to sleep too. You’ve been up for over thirty hours now.”

“Keep watch,” Illya said with a shrug. “Not a problem.”

“We’ll be safe, Illya,” Napoleon said impulsively. “Come, lie down next to me. We can spare a few hours’ sleep, can’t we?”

Illya looked at the gun in his lap and then the bed before sighing and standing up. Pleased with his convincing skills, Napoleon smiled warmly at the other man.

“Manipulative cowboy,” Illya grumbled.

Gaby rolled her eyes and laid back down. “Wake me if there’s any trouble.”

Illya grunted his assent, curling as close as he dared, and Napoleon gently, gingerly, balanced his hands on his chest so the two of them could move closer. Gaby’s slight weight shifted, a small line of heat that comforted and soothed. On the other side, Illya’s body got heavier as he fell into sleep – he’d been up a while, that much had been true, and he must have been desperately trying to stay awake. If Gaby was a small patch of warmth and sunlight, Illya was a furnace, giving off a deep heat that Napoleon shifted closer to in order to get the full benefit of that heat.

These two were his family, his world, and with them on either side he could finally fall into a restful sleep.


End file.
